


It's Hardly Anything

by nymja



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-09 00:14:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6881461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymja/pseuds/nymja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first thing Wanda notices when they are able to leave their cells is that his heartbeat isn’t the same. It used to be perfectly in time with hers, and now it rattles, a small bird trapped in her brother’s chest that is trying to escape from them both.</p><p>--</p><p>Wanda and grief during that missing year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Hardly Anything

Her cheek is pressed against the hardwood floor. Dust stings her eyes and she’s given up trying to hide the fact that she is crying. His arms are tight around her shoulders, his back facing the shell. She is hungry and thirsty and he must be all those things as well but he does his best to keep her from seeing it.

 

But she does. She sees the angry, red letters that are stamped out on its side. She traces them with her mind, one at a time. The name burns as she hears slabs of concrete and wood shift above them.

 

_ StarkStark _ **_Stark_ **

 

“Twelve more minutes, yes?” Her brother whispers into her ear. He is crying too. “Twelve more minutes, that’s it.”

 

“Twelve more minutes,” she repeats. 

 

His arms hold her tighter, closer. She doesn’t want to tell him that she doesn’t think it will matter-- that the bomb will tear them both apart anyway. Pietro’s lips press against her forehead. 

 

“That’s hardly anything,” he says.

 

She squeezes her eyes. “Shorter than laundry.”

 

“Shorter than dishes.”

 

Her fingers dig into his coat. Breathe, she thinks. His heart thuds in her ear. She counts the beats up to twelve and starts over again.

 

It’s hardly anything.

 

\--

 

Her fingers tighten around the handle of the spoon. In the kettle below her is a pathetic attempt at goulash. It could use seasoning. 

 

“What is it?” She demands, eyes darting from pot to the...person in front of her.

 

The Vision sits on the other side of the counter, his head tilting. “Miss Maximoff?”

 

“Wanda,” she corrects. She twirls her finger over the pot and a spark of red emits from it. After a moment, she drops her hand and the spoon starts to go without her. “And you’re staring.”

 

The Vision blinks, pushing away from the counter as if it’s just occurred to him. “My apologies.” 

She shrugs. He is hardly the first to do so, here at this complex. They walk around her as though she is something about to go off. Something aches with that and her eyes dart back to the simmering goulash. 

 

She’s never liked the dish. But it had been-

 

The spoon cracks in half in a sudden burst of red.

 

“I’ve offended you,” The Vision realizes. “It was not my intention.”

 

“Then what was your intention?” She mutters, knowing that he’s not the one who should be bearing the brunt of...of goulash. 

 

“I was only trying to…” Again, his head tilts. “To know you. Observation seemed a prudent first step.”

 

Her head snaps up. “Why?”

 

“I suppose the simple answer is that I believe you are worth knowing.”

 

The comment is unexpected. Wanda absently turns off the stove, not breaking eye contact with him. “What makes you think this?”

 

He looks...embarrassed? “I would benefit from additional contemplation before claiming to have an answer.”

 

Her lip quirks. She walks to the cabinet, where the Avengers have paid for expensive dishes and brings out two bowls, two spoons, two glasses. With rehearsed motions, she starts to pour out the noodles from the pot-

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

Wanda doesn’t look up. Steam rolls from the pot, clouds her eyes. “About what now?”

 

“I don’t eat,” he gently reminds her.

 

She knows that already, and is about to tell him such, before she realizes what she’s been doing. She looks at the overcooked noodles that she doesn’t care for, the pair of bowls. Her hands shake.

 

“Wanda?”

 

“Excuse me,” she whispers, before she sets the pot in the sink and retreats quickly to her room.

\--

 

“You can’t cook worth a shit,” she says around a grin.

 

Pietro’s brows furrow in mock misunderstanding. He taps his spoon against his chin while brushing brown hair back from his eyes. “What’s your solution, then? Adding enough pepper to close my throat?”

 

Wanda lowers her gaze, properly mollified. Pietro lets out a little huff of victory, looking down to his goulash when-

 

A soggy noodle slaps across the bridge of his nose. Slides down his chin. Plops into his bowl. He glares at her, and Wanda bites down on her lip to stop from laughing.

 

“Oh, you’ll pay for that.”

 

They have eye contact for a second. And then she’s up, shoving her chair back and bolting around the apartment as Pietro chases after her. Her hand wraps around the doorknob-

 

And the building starts to shake. She feels his arm wrap around her shoulders just as her fingers fall from the cool brass.

 

“Better not go outside,” Pietro mutters, somber.

 

She nods, and they head back to the table. They eat their meal in silence, both of them looking out the window in fear when they think the other doesn’t notice.

 

\--

 

“Pulling your punches?” 

 

“What?”

 

Steve lowers his shield, blue eyes seeking out hers. “I haven’t been sent airbourne yet, so I can’t help but think your heart’s not into training today.”

 

She frowns, fingers picking at the edges of her wrist warmers. “Just...thinking.”

 

Obviously chalking the sparring round up to a loss, Steve sets his shield on the ground. “Care to enlighten me?”

 

Wanda...likes Steve. There is something about him that is difficult to reject. Like Vision. And the others. She doesn’t know quite what to do about  _ teams  _ yet, and what it means to have one at the cost of the one she was born into.

 

“Sokovia,” she bites out.

 

“Sokovia.” Steve takes a few steps to a nearby bench and sits, tossing her a bottle of water from underneath it. Her hand flares up instinctively, coating it in red before it hovers down into her palm.

 

With awkward, unsure steps, she moves to sit next to Steve. He waits for her to adjust before he speaks again.

 

“Want to talk about it?”

 

She stares down at the water in her hand. It ripples in her hold, jarred by the countless energy that surrounds her. “No.”

 

“No, never, or no not yet?”

 

“...not yet.”

 

Steve nods, taking a thoughtful pull from his own bottle. After a minute, his arm comes around her shoulders, squeezing her close.

 

No one has held her since Pietro. Her heart crawls up her throat.

 

“It hurts,” she manages.

 

“I know.”

 

“It’s hard for me to-- to realize I won’t be seeing him again.”

 

Steve looks ahead. His arm doesn’t leave her. Her eyes drift to a set of dog tags around his neck. “Yeah,” he clears his throat. Tries again. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

 

\--

 

His arms are tight around her. Her fingers cling to the daisies in her hand as they stare at the pair of stones.

 

“We’d have each other,” he promises.

 

She kneels, setting down the already wilting flowers onto the grass. 

 

He rests his chin on her shoulder. They are both already done with crying, but this is a time where the act feels close.

 

“Dr. List is asking for volunteers again,” he says. It’s not the first time he’s brought it up this week.

 

Wanda stares at the memory of their parents.

 

“...you’re going this time?” She manages.

 

“I need to.”

 

Wanda takes a slow, long breath.

“Then I go with you.”

 

\--

 

The glass slamming down on the counter wakes her from her sleep on the sofa. It’s late, she thinks, but she hasn’t been able yet to sleep alone in her bed. 

 

“Here’s how this works,” comes the slightly raspy voice of Agent Romanoff as she grabs two shot glasses to accompany her large container of vodka. “I pour you one, you tell me a story. You pour me one, and I tell you a story. We drink until the bottle’s gone. Deal?”

 

Wanda blinks. Agent Romanoff stays at the compound, but they still have yet to have a conversation beyond training and debriefings. Her eyes go from the alcohol, to the woman, and back.

 

“That is very cheap vodka,” she manages.

 

Agen Romanoff grins. “It’s Sokovian.”

 

\--

 

They finish the bottle.

All of Wanda’s stories are ones that are shared with Pietro.    
All but one of Natasha’s stories, she thinks, are lies.

 

But somehow Wanda knows the one that is true has only been heard by her. And she knows she’s been trusted not to tell it. So she won’t.

 

\--

 

Her body is burning from the inside out. Her veins flare in electric red, her mind is screaming.

 

“ _ Where _ ?” She screams out into the darkness, thrashing against the restraints that hold her to her bed. “ **_Where is my brother_ ** ?!”

 

“I’m here, Wanda,” comes a small voice on the other side of a wall. “I’m always right here.”

 

Tears roll down her cheeks, because it  _ hurts, _ but she doesn’t scream again.

 

\--

 

“Here.”

 

Wanda looks up from her book. Sam stands in front of her, fingers curled around the neck of a guitar. She slowly puts down the novel Vision had borrowed her. “...Here what?”

 

Sam tosses the instrument at her. She catches it with a small fumble, the guitar making a horrible, echoing sound. “You need a hobby.”

 

Her nose wrinkles. “I do not.”

 

“Fine,  _ I  _ need a hobby. Getting tired of all the PT and running.” Sam sits next to her on her bed, readjusting her grip. “We’re going to have lessons twice a week when we’re not on an op, got it? And I expect you to practice.”

 

She shakes her head, trying to give the instrument back. “I don’t want to-”

 

“No.  _ Hobby.  _ You and me. Team bonding. Learn something by next week, and it better not be  _ Stairway to Heaven. _ ”

 

He leaves as abruptly as he came in, and Wanda stares at the strange, unexpected gift on her lap with confusion.

 

\--

 

...she decides to learn The Rolling Stones. Pietro had one of their CDs once, she thinks.

 

\--

 

“We’re about to make things place better,” he tells her through the wall.

 

She leans against it. Around her head there are several, floating blocks. “You’ve never lied to me before, Pietro.”

There’s a short chuckle, as though he’s out of breath. “And I’m not about to start.”

 

\--

 

She wakes up in the morning and there is nothing but loss in her chest. She throws things, breaking them with her hands and her powers, ruining whatever makeshift things she has attempted to build in her room.

 

Until she gets to the guitar.

 

Wanda stares at it and her knees go weak. She slumps to the ground, angry and out of breath.

 

And buries her hands into her hair. Because she doesn’t want to be here. She doesn’t want to be here with the ones who are not Pietro. 

 

\--

 

“I would like us to become friends.”

 

Wanda looks up from her tea. The Vision attempts something she hopes isn’t a smile.  She drinks. “Why is that.”

 

The question seems to surprise him. He looks up, his strange, synthetic eyes whirling. “I’m not certain.” He refills her cup. “But I feel as though it will be a worthy expenditure of time.”

 

She moves her eyes slowly away from him. “I suppose we can give it a try.”

 

The Vision gets a little closer to smiling.

So does Wanda.   
  


\--

 

Rhodey teaches her how to play chess. She is not very good at it. But there is something she enjoys about losing to the quiet man.

 

\--

 

The first thing Wanda notices when they are able to leave their cells is that his heartbeat isn’t the same. It used to be perfectly in time with hers, and now it  _ rattles,  _ a small bird trapped in her brother’s chest that is trying to escape from them both.

 

\--

 

Sam smiles, wide and happy. “There you go-- less dying cat, more tempo.”

 

Wanda rolls her eyes, but tries out another chord.

 

\--

 

Steve, it turns out, likes to draw. Sometimes, after they’re both tired and exhausted after training, they will sit and do it together.

 

\--

 

Wanda feels it when he dies.   
She feels every bullet (there are twelve, it’s everything). Feels his last breath go out between his lips. 

 

She feels that bird, clawing its way out of her ribs. Escaping her throat as a scream.

 

\--

 

“I think it’s time you started going out in the field,” Natasha starts one night, her boots kicked up on the coffee table and a beer sweating in her palm.

 

Wanda picks at the edges of her sleeve. Half-heartedly listens to the movie they’re watching. “Why now?”

 

“I think what broke you hasn’t destroyed you,” she says honestly. “And I think we can build something. It doesn’t replace Sokovia--”

 

“Say his name,” she whispers.

 

Natasha tilts her head. 

 

“ _ Please, _ ” Wanda begs. “Please say his name.”

 

After a moment, she nods. “It doesn’t replace Pietro. But it’s a start.”

 

“A start of what?”

 

“That’s for you to decide.”

 

\--

 

She dug her nails into his heart, and felt nothing for it.

\--

 

“You’re leaving?”

 

Wanda startles as The Vision enters her room. She clears her throat, buttoning her coat. “Yes. An...exercise.”

 

The Vision looks almost as though he disapproves. Wanda tilts her head as she tucks her hair under a ball cap.

 

“In Lagos.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Wanda…”

 

“What is it?” She says, an edge in her voice. She is not something about to go off. She is not something that is just  _ broken.  _

 

The Vision hesitates, then rests a hand on her shoulder. “Please exercise caution.”

 

Not disapproval, she realizes. Worry. She puts a hand over his, surprised that it is warm. “...I’ll be careful.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

\--

 

She tries not to think about Pietro at the cafe. But he is there-- her mind can’t help but think of all their conversations that will always be half-finished.

 

But Wanda does her best to follow orders.   
  
\--

 

Later, the bomb goes off.

 

Eleven deaths.   
Not quite twelve.

 


End file.
